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No Prince Can Save You Now


Snow White was enjoying the quiet. The guys were off at the mine. The bluebirds were off at a convention and not asking for duets with her. She had finished her chores and was enjoying a cup of chamomile.

She should have known better.

It was too quiet.

She was about to move for her sword when the boot smashed into the side of her face. She tumbled into the corner.

“Snow.,” snarled the female voice.

“Pocahontas.,” she said, bluntly acknowledging the tall warrior woman, sword drawn, standing in her living room.

“I heard what you did to Ariel. You know all the legend says is, ‘Cut off their head, absorb their power,’ – it says nothing about filet them and hang them in the harbor for everyone to see. That’s not normal. You’re sick. You need help.”

“That’s rich coming from the woman who left her prince to come back and live with seven dwarfling husbands in a small house and one bed. Pervert.”

The sword sang from behind Pocahontas and flew into Snow’s hands.

“Still relying on fairy god-mother to keep you alive with enchantments, eh, Snow? Let’s end this.”

"I will cut you up into all of the fucking colors of the wind, you bitch!"

The swords clashed in a flash of magic and steel.

Snow stared her down defiantly.

“There can be only one.”




Silence has crashed around me. Paralyzing and terrifying as my usual busy previous world has become utterly silent.

I used to run to the window at the sound of a car. The busses stopped a few weeks ago - and then the airplanes stopped. Food boxes arrive in the dark of night, and we all go out at our prescribed time to get them. Alone, I look up and down the street, greeted by nothing at all.

At first, we all felt saved by the internet with its limitless supply of information, fauxtertainment. Distraction. But that is all gone now too.

I imagine ancient ancestors having reverse concerns as the society of their time got louder and louder and louder. Until, however, we created so much that it came crashing down around us in what felt like an instant.

The leaky faucet in the guest bedroom is a sound usually drummed out by the din of everything else going on. Now it feels like my tell-tale heart.


One psychological trip at a time

barry gibb

"Hayden Christensen!." he screamed, suddenly sitting up in bed.

"Oh dear lord, not again, are you okay?"

"I think so, thats the second time this week."

"Which movie sequel was it this time?"

"The Matrix - they recast Keanu Reeves with Hayden Christiansen. its like - he's moving through my subconscious like a virus."

"At least he hasn't moved into your wet dream set."

"Don't be giving my subsconscious any ideas, I mean - I'm thinking it's finally time to bring this up with Barry Gibb."

"Barry Gibb?"

"yep, we meet for lunch in my dreams at some wierdly lit Hollywood hang out and talk about my week. He's a good friend - well - at least in my mind."

"So your inner voice is Barry Gibb?"

"I guess so."

"Well tell him to beat up Hayden Christensen, or better yet, tell him to end Hayden Christensen for good."

"You're asking me to go into my dreamscape and purposely create a fight between the two - perhaps even give Barry a gun and say 'do this for me, Barry, you're my only hope' like Princess Leia?"

"Very much like Princess Leia, only fuzzier."

"But what if Hayden just clones himself into Barry and shows up at lunch, knowing I'd told Barry to kill him."

"One psychological trip at a time, darling, one at a time."

"Right. Must kill Hayden Christensen."

"Goals. sweety, goals."



st catherine montreal

They are, as we say, a ‘pilliers des bars,’ a pillar of the bar. Always there at 3 p.m. with a Sapphire and soda, smiling and enjoying cigars. They gossip, laugh, talk about the state of the neighborhood, reminisce about life before it all and before equality, where life was the struggle to not be invisible. They had all come out in times when faggot was said in a shameful whisper, leave alone a way to live, only to have the same world abandon them when they started dying.

The wars they'd been through personally and collectively created bonds that were simply unbreakable. Young gays frolic by on St. Catherine, blissfully unaware that generations before them had been forcibly removed from their experience. For the pilliers, peace and contentment was recognition from another human being, friendships where everyone lay their true selves on to the table.

Nothing else will do.


a lake to be drowned in


I scooted myself down in the bed, immersing myself like it was a lake to be drowned in. I explored with my hands while pretending I could still feel you there, smell you there. I daydream. I drift off into deep sleep and awaken tangled in sweaty sheets.


I'd looked into the mirror that afternoon and counted the grey even white hairs on the sharp of my face. They were visible markers of how my body was slowly breaking down and dying for everyone to see. I'd decided to solve the problem by spending the afternoon getting impossibly strong gin and tonics from Marcus at the bar.

You came in as I sipped my third, catching me stare as you walked by. You were meeting friends. I watched you exchange laughter and air kisses and I felt my shoulders fall, as I realized I was still alone despite it.

I don't remember how much later someone touched my shoulder and asked if the stool next to me was taken. I remember mumbling something resembling affirmative. When I finally turned and realized it was you, and involuntary smile erupted across my face.

After sharing stories over the din of the soundtrack of a Sunday beerbust, you leaned in close and whispered the magic words into my ear, "Hows'about we spend the night together and wake up smelling like each other by sunrise?"